PerpleXed
by thebloomcrewof1
Summary: Sometimes, as a mutant, you encounter sensations and situations that leave you perplexed. These strange occurences have the power to change lives or take them away...even if the life affected is yours. So what do you do? Nothing. Your problem is genetic.


**Author's Note: Her powers may be complicated to understand, at first. I really don't plan to dive into it too much unless a multitude of people really don't get what's going on. Please take notice her powers aren't meant to be explained, seeing as they are intricate by nature and I want the reader to have virtually the same amount of insight as the character. I'm planning on making this a compilation of short stories/bizarre happenings. In other words, this is the last you will be seeing of Brooke unless I decide to make another set of stories. Characters will probably not be recycled, but more or less hinted at throughout the series. Thanks. Enjoy and please comment ;D **

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**_~Brooke~_**

Brooke blinked, dark brown eyes scanning the place that best reminded her of home: her room. She felt the bright blue cotton of her pajama pants rub slightly against her pale skin as she shuffled around in her bed.

It had been two days since her powers first manifested, a mere two days since she had accidentally managed to have seven hours of school pass in almost three minutes. Kids had ridden home bewildered; parents had been called from jobs to pick up their children. Police had soon after discovered only clocks within a 20-mile radius of the school had been infected. The ruckus it caused was horrid. And no one knew it was her.

That was the only good thing about it all.

Brooke had heard of other children, teenagers, and in some particularly rare cases, adults, whose powers had sparked randomly; they'd cause the deaths of the people nearest to them when it happened. Some had accidentally murdered no more than a few adjacent bystanders; others were unfortunate enough to wipe out an entire building's worth of people…sometimes even an entire town. But this had been different. All Brooke had done was sped up time.

In a way, the thirteen-year-old wished people knew it was she who defeated Father Time. It seemed better, from her perspective at least, to have the police immediately scope her out and interview her a few times (maybe even send her to a place where she could learn control), rather than to have an abundance of militia standing outside of the town, closing borders, investigating suspicious incidents that had happened prior. It made her sick to her stomach, so many mercenaries, armed with guns and other large weaponry. It was all made for, all just in case of…her. But nobody knew it yet. Officers and their men stood on streets near and far in Knoxville, just waiting for the "mutie" to spring free and do something dangerous. The uncomfortable part of it all was that they were barking orders and doing unpredictable "house checks." Her friend Mariah and her father had to be taken to the police department twice for questioning in the past three hours.

Brooke had panicked then. Was it possible that Mariah knew? If so, did she tell the police? It couldn't have been, could it? _She _had only known for two days, so how could anyone else know? _Were_there prior incidents? Were there minutes of déjà vu when she and her had practiced soccer together? Did she ever find sleepovers to be too slow, too quick? Did the police know? Were they getting warmer? They had to…they were asking her best friend. It made sense, didn't it?

No. It didn't.

….Did her powers have loopholes? Brooke had contemplated this question time and time again. Her powers _must_ have had a loophole. How else could she explain the fact that Eliza's grandparents, who both worked for a company outside of town, found no bizarre time difference, but Brady's mom, who worked in a nail shop a few miles away, did. Sure, the police stated 20 miles, but that left so many ridiculous possibilities. How could the sun be in a different position there, in clear view of the school, but then just 20 miles away, it was still in a position claiming it to be 8:45 a.m.? She had learned in science class that sort of thing was possible, but only in different countries, because of the "time zones" and what part of the earth was facing the sun. So did that mean she had made her own little time zone? That really didn't make any sense. And how did she turn it back to normal? Did she clack her heels twice? Do a "rock out" sign with a flick of her fingers? How could she make seven hours worth of life fast forward, and then just stop there? It didn't take any concentration on her part, she noticed. It wasn't like Mrs. Dale had been teaching them about ancient Mayan civilization one minute and the next she was skittering across the classroom in record time, her voice going high pitched like a chipmunk. Everything and everyone during the strange three minutes had acted completely normal. Amber had half-heartedly tossed a note back to Evelyn. Micah had managed to get eleven spitballs in a row entangled throughout Kelsey's hair with frightening precision. But they hadn't sailed through the air like bullets, simply gliding until they reached the girl's frizzy blonde tresses.

She wanted to believe some kid in her class, dying of boredom had been staring at the clock. She wanted to ask her friends if they had literally seen the hands of it slide by like some sort of timer, but she knew she'd be asking for trouble. The armed force that was watching their town with a hawk's eye had been very clear about what was going to happen from the very moment they had been called on duty with this case. If you so much as talked about what happened, you were an immediate suspect. She couldn't have that. She didn't want to leave Knoxville with everyone seeing her as some sort of criminal, some mutie terrorist. She wasn't even sure if there were such things as centers for mutants. Maybe it was all a hoax. Sweat beaded on her head, making her brunette braid damp and clammy. She had heard of places for mutants, but there was very little on them, she reasoned. Google search had limited images and most of them didn't even have their own Wikipedia page. A multitude weren't even on the grid. Once, her pen pal from South Carolina mentioned her brother was a mutant once they had grown close enough. She stated that he was going to Lucas Learning Center for Homosuperiors. Hannah had explained that it was some sort of boarding school off in the Swedish Alps for mutants with extreme abilities that were a danger to themselves and the others around them. Hannah was mums about what her brother's power actually was, but when Brooke had searched it, a note came up telling her that the location "could not be found" and "perhaps she should check the spelling of said search." She wanted to believe that maybe the internet hadn't picked it up because the school was really quiet, or maybe they didn't have an internet site. She wanted to think for a few moments that the search didn't pick it up because it was too far away. But she got the feeling, the one she rarely got, that told her there was no such thing. The only other time she had this exact same feeling was when she noticed five Christmases ago that Santa had the exact same haircut as her Uncle James and that time when her brother said the Fountain of Youth was in their backyard. Now, knowing that she was one of "them," she craved nothing more than to ask Hannah if there truly was a center. If she had been wrong in her gut feeling and there were such things as camps and centers for mutants who didn't know what to do with their newfound abilities. But how could she? She didn't want to seem rude. How could she accuse Hannah of lying? How could she make the girl worry that her brother wasn't truly in the capable hands of a government-fueled facility, but maybe victim to some wacked out program? She had been human, the ever-normal homosapien female just blossoming into teenagerhood this past February, and now she was some sort of freak of nature. Now she was the target for hate mail. Those idiots on television wanted her gone because of some accident another mutant caused, because of some mistake another _person_ made. It was so easy to believe that there was no such thing as centers created for the sole purpose of torturing mutants…when you were human. It was nowhere near plausible to think kids were hung on streetlights simply because their hair was green, or because their skin was blue…when you were human. It was all fun and games until the tables were turned, wasn't it? She cursed herself for being so cold and uncaring before. But now….now that she was who she was…things began to get jumbled.

What would this mean for her? Would this all just blow over and never come back? Or would it all just blow over and never come back until she made a wrong move, until she screwed up again and pulled a Houdini move. Only this time, would it be 7 days? 7 weeks? How long could she continue "accidentally" manipulating time until she did something unfixable? What if she made time speed up, but never put it back on its axis. What if she did that 20 times…in varying places? What if she trapped herself in the same day in the same town over and over again? And what if she made a disappearing act so large that people in an entire state would be days, years behind? And nobody would know until someone came along and found themselves in some freakshow town where everyone was still mumbling the same garbage about a hurricane that had passed seventeen years ago in New York, but only five days ago in New Jersey? How did she know where the line was drawn? Where did the loopholes turn into black holes? Could she do that? Could she mess with Father Time so much it caused a black hole? Could she damage the earth permanently? Could she stop it?

Her mind overloaded with questions and clear droplets formed in her eyes. How could she control her power if it was so dangerous that she'd never be able to practice with it, test it…see how far it could go?

It wasn't fair. It was nowhere near fair that she would be given this burden, this despicable farce she'd be forced to deal with, to hold back until God knows when…maybe even death? The cure was out of the question. It had been only a month ago that scientists and government agencies had suspected the cure didn't truly work. It only suppressed the gene for a little while, they claimed, and then the powers came back. Some were stronger than before, and others were weak and unnoticeable, simply growing with time…but never so weak that they never came back. And maybe that would work for a boy who had horns sprouting from his head or a girl with an extra eye that could barf fire or some such nonsense…but if she could control time like she thought she could, Brooke knew that having her power erupt stronger than before at any given time was the most hazardous position she could put herself in.

The water forming in her dark brown eyes made a slow, quivering trek over her pale skin, before tickling the edge of her narrow chin and dripping down to the barely-there cleavage left bare from the neckline of her matching, sky blue tank top. More and more tears grazed her cheeks as she bit her lip.

"_Where does that leave me?"_

Brooke snapped her eyes open, groaning inwardly. She had either slept through the entire night, yet only felt like she had had 30 minutes of peaceful rest, slept through the entire night but had sped up time subconsciously, or a hypnic jerk. She hoped to God it was a hypnic jerk.

The first thing she noticed was that she wasn't in her bed, the second sensation of warning was the she (and her not-bed) were moving, and thirdly, her eyes spotted a window with flashing lights gloomily blurring and whirring…she was somewhere else…and she was somewhere else passing buildings at an unrecognizable speed. Brooke felt her body tremble slightly, fingers shaking crazily. She wondered if they had found her out. Did they realize she was a mutant? Were they taking her to some mutant center in the Alps? A program conducted of a bunch of crazy scientists who needed mutants to be their guinea pigs? The thought itself made her feel off balance.

Brooke shakily sat up and looked around. It took two seconds to register that she was in a tram, four seconds to realize she was not alone, and five seconds to remember breathing. Seven pairs of eyes gleamed back at her. Some were sheepish, others mildly confused. One…haunted.

There was an African-American man in his late forties, carrying a briefcase. A teenager, about seventeen, sat across from him, leather guitar case resting on her badly bruised knees which could be seen from the "stylish" cuts and holes in her jeans. A set of identical twins, women, were dressed in an outfit you'd see one wear for a circus. One of them apprehended a poodle that was busy licking the hand that held it. Next to the twin with the poodle was a man with golden blonde, curly hair, his arm wrapped around the poodle-twin, holding her close to his chest. His hazel orbs, instead of focusing on his carnie girlfriend, were eyeing the last woman in the tram. There in front of him, glaring at him with the same tense gaze from the corner of her own eyes, holding lazily onto the pole jutting from the ceiling of the cart and into the floor, was a woman at least twenty years of age. She had wavy brunette hair and dark eyes, donning an expensive looking jacket, no doubt designer. She seemed average…Brooke wanted her to be average so bad…but she knew she wasn't. Though she attempted at looking at ease, Brooke knew the woman mirrored the sensation of anxiety that was all but doing sloppy somersaults in her stomach.

That was her. That _had_ to be her.

She had the exact same features. Pale skin, skinny frame, and when Brooke stared at the woman's uncharacteristically bony hands, she saw the same black nail polish she was wearing at this very second. Brooke saw the carnie freak's boyfriend whisper something, no doubt naughty, into his girlfriend's ear. Whatever he said made her blush rapidly and she awarded him with a playful jab of her free hand. Then he whispered something else. And that something couldn't have been naughty; because instead of blushing a deeper shade of red, the woman glanced at Brooke, and then at the woman grasping the pole. Her face turned into a scowl. When the tram stopped and the woman silently edged toward the open door, the boyfriend reached into his coat pocket and brought out a handgun, aiming it directly at the woman.

Brooked bit the inside of her cheek and began wondering why the hell she was here and how she had even got here. But she already knew. And now that she knew…she wanted to go back. She _had_ to go back, didn't she? Wouldn't this interrupt the timeline…this dimension, this creepy, albeit interesting situation she found herself in: Watching her future self…have a gun pointed to her head.

The chilly breeze of what she could only identify as having similarities to a wintry New York seemed to put things back into play.

"You a mutie?" the man asked frankly.

Brooke's stomach felt like she was freefalling. This was obviously her…and if she were a mutant now, how could she a not be a mutant _now_.

"I beg your pardon?" the woman asked, a slight accent decorating her stony voice. She didn't turn around, but instead continued to walk toward the door.

"Listen, freak, another step…and your brain will be splattered against the floor."

Brooke's hope sank, she would die…she would die on….

Glancing around the room frantically, Brooke searched for some calendar…_anything_ that would give her a clue to the day she would die. All she could find, however, was a clock in the corner of the cart that read: 11:12 p.m.

The gun rang and Brooke whimpered slightly, turning around to see her future self, the twenty-something year old Brooke Nathalia Walters's body laying on the floor, blood pooling from the disgusting wound the bullet had made. The girl with the guitar case gave a high-pitched scream in fear and tumbled out of her seat, crawling over to the corner of the cart. She had voiced her fright so deafeningly, that numerous cracks began spreading throughout the tram's windows. The man with the briefcase had his mouth agape, horror sketched onto his features, staring at the dead woman on the floor. He glared at the psycho boyfriend, then the woman again. The poodle began to bark rapidly, its sharp teeth glistening as drool poured over its black lips and dripped onto the calm carnie woman's hand. Both twins looked unfazed and the man holding the gun had an unsettling gleam in his eye…the one that held no remorse. The look of a killer. Brooke's eye twitched as she glared at the beautiful woman…the woman she would only be for such a short period of time, and bit her lower lip.

"Listen up! Frankie, Mr. Burke…you'll also be dying tonight" the boyfriend glared at the hysterically sobbing teenager and the tense man who currently had a look of defiance in his eye.

"And you!!" the man snapped his eyes up at Brooke, shooting her a look that might kill her faster than any bullet. "…Little Brooke Walters…I shoulda killed you first…if you weren't here….she wouldn't be." He nodded his head over to Brooke's older self. The doors closed, and the tram began to move again. Flesh and blood was a mess all over the ground.

_"How does he know me? How does he know I'm her?"_

_"How do I know I'm her?"_

He pointed the handgun at her with a twisted smirk. "No worries."

Brooke closed her eyes, awaiting her death. There was nowhere to run, and no one to go to. Everyone else who wasn't a complete schizophrenic bastard on this bus was cowering in fear at what had just happened and what was to come. She thought that maybe this way the best. Everyone died for a reason, right?

"_Maybe if I die, my older self not going on the tram will make it so that Frankie and that black guy won't go on the tram."_

She felt her entire body go numb immediately and thought the bullet had struck her, believing she was to die in a second's time, even though she had never heard the cock or eruption of the gun or bullet.

But when she opened her eyes, she was in her bed. Blanket snugly enveloping her thin body, teddy bear settled against her back in a familiar way. Brooke cozily inhabited the one place that best reminded her of home.

And back in that dimension, in that creepy, albeit interesting setting she found herself in just seconds earlier, were two carnie freaks, a psychotic boyfriend, a guitar-playing teenager, an African-American traveler and a vicious poodle, frozen in their spots at 4:12 a.m., January 2nd, 2020.


End file.
